rward cautiously. Once Flatray spoke.

"By the tracks there has been a lot of cattle down here on the jump
recently."

"That's what," Tim agreed.

Flatray swung from his saddle and stooped over the body lying at the bend
of the wash.

"Crushed to death in a cattle stampede, looks like," he called to the
sheriff.

"Search him, Jack," the sheriff ordered.

The young man gave an exclamation of surprise. He was standing with a
cigarcase in one hand and a billbook in the other. "It's the man we're
after--it's Bellamy."

Burke left his horse and came forward. "How do you know?"

"Initials on the cigarcase, R. B. Same monogram on the billbook."

The sheriff had stooped to pick up a battered hat as he moved toward the
deputy. Now he showed the initials stamped on the sweat band. "R. B. here,
too."

"Suit of gray clothes, derby hat, size and weight about medium. We'll
never know about the scar on the eyebrow, but I guess Mr. Bellamy is
identified without that."

"Must have camped here last night and while he was asleep the cattle
stampeded down the canyon," Tim hazarded.

"That guess is as good as any. They ce'tainly stomped the life out of him
thorough. Anyhow, Bellamy has met up with his punishment. We'll have to
pack the body back to town, boys," the sheriff told them.

Half an hour later the party filed out to the creosote flats and struck
across country toward Mesa. Flatray was riding pillion behind Tim. His own
horse was being used as a pack saddle.

CHAPTER II

BRAND BLOTTING

The tenderfoot, slithering down a hillside of shale, caught at a
greasewood bush and waited. The sound of a rifle shot had drifted across
the ridge to him. Friend or foe, it made no difference to him now. He had
reached the end of his tether, must get to water soon or give up the
fight.

No second shot broke the stillness. A swift zigzagged across the cattle
trail he was following. Out of a blue sky the Arizona sun still beat down
upon a land parched by aeons of drought, a land still making its brave show
of greenness against a dun background.

Arrow straight the man made for the hill crest. Weak as a starved puppy,
his knees bent under him as he climbed. Down and up again a dozen times,
he pushed feverishly forward. All day he had been seeing things. Cool
lakes had danced on the horizon line before his tortured vision. Strange
fancies had passed in and out of his mind. He wondered if this, too, were
a delusion. How